The ride through the snowy streets of Paris was long and slow. Eira sat at the back of the muggle bus, arms folded across her chest, scarf tucked tightly beneath her chin. The bus was mostly empty—only a few passengers murmured to one another or stared out the frost-laced windows. No one looked at her. She preferred it that way.
The city passed by in gray stone and blurred lights. As the bus slowed near Rue de Sélène, she stood, stepped off into the cold, and walked briskly through the narrow streets. Her boots crunched over salted pavements, and the glow of Christmas decorations shimmered on windowpanes. All around her, the world looked warm and festive—a scene that was full of warmth and happiness for ordinary people.
She paused in front of a quiet, shadowed alley nestled between two antique bookshops. To a stranger's eye, it was a dead end. But to her, it was a familiar path home.
From beneath her sleeve, Eira touched the silver emblem bound around her wrist—a thin, rune-engraved sigil in the shape of the White family crest a fox. With a whispered incantation and a flick of intention, the emblem glowed faintly. A tall iron gate shimmered into view, framed by climbing ivy and a cobblestone arch.
No one noticed.
The muggle-repelling wards did their work flawlessly. Passersby drifted along the sidewalk, eyes sliding over her as if she didn't exist. To them, this part of the street was nothing more than shadows and brick.
She stepped through the shimmering veil. The courtyard of the White Manor emerged like a hidden world with silence , walled in ivy and winter roses, snow-dusted statues watching like sentinels.
But something was wrong.
The front doors of the manor stood wide open, creaking slightly in the wind.
Eira stopped.
A warning chill ran down her spine, something more than the December cold. Slowly and deliberately, she pulled her wand from her coat pocket.
She stepped across the threshold.
The moment she entered, the silence swallowed her. No familiar scent of warm wood polish. No faint rustle of Lolly tidying the rooms. Just cold, unmoving air.
She stepped further in, eyes sweeping the entrance hall.
Broken glass glittered on the marble floor. A mirror had been shattered against the wall. One of the portraits lay face-down, the canvas torn. A chair had been knocked over; scorch marks ran along the baseboards.
There had been a fight here.
Her pulse quickened. "Lolly?" she called softly, voice wavering.
No answer.
She moved forward slowly, her wand gripped tighter now, the fear crawling higher in her chest with each step. The drawing room doors were half-open. She pushed them fully.
And stopped.
There, hanging from a beam in the middle of the room, was a small, limp body. A rope cinched tightly around the neck. A pale hand dangled mid-air. The green livery of the White household hung off her frail frame like wet cloth.
Eira dropped her wand.
"No…"
She rushed forward, knees nearly giving way beneath her as she reached up, trembling fingers fumbling with the knot. The rope burned her hands as she pulled Lolly down, cradling the tiny, broken body in her arms.
"No, no, no, no, no—Lolly , please—wake up—Lolly —" her voice cracked, fell apart. "You're just—just tired, right? I—I came late, I should've—should've come sooner—"
She shook her gently. Her tears spilled freely now, warm against Lolly's cold skin.
But the house-elf did not move.
Lolly , the one who had fed her when she was too weak to hold a spoon, who sat at her bedside after her coma, who brushed her hair and whispered lullabies from the old tongue when nightmares woke her—was gone.
Murdered. Executed like a traitor.
Eira rocked her, numb and disbelieving, cradling Lolly as if she were a child. "You were supposed to wait for me," she whispered. "You always waited…"
Her hand brushed against the pouch inside her coat. With shaking fingers, she reached in and pulled out a small metal disk—a communication charm enchanted by Emma Bloom. If activated, Emma would instantly feel the surge and Apparate through her personal door key.
Eira held it in her palm and pressed her thumb against the central rune. It flared with golden light, then dimmed.
She sat back, laying Lolly gently on the velvet sofa nearby, brushing back the house-elf's thin white hair with reverence, as if trying to restore some small dignity to what had been so brutally taken.
A sharp movement caught her eye.
On the far wall—above the mantle—something had been pinned.
A note.
The parchment was roughly torn, the ink smeared slightly from the cold, but the words were clear. Written in bold, curling handwriting:
"Happy Christmas, my dear niece.
It's a gift.
—Cecil."
For a moment, Eira couldn't breathe.
Then rage cracked through the fog of sorrow like lightning.
"Cecil!" she screamed, the name tearing from her throat. "You fucking bastard! You—monster!"
She whirled around, her eyes wild, and struck the edge of the fireplace with her fist, sending a cascade of ash and stone tumbling. She looked down at Lolly again, then back at the hateful message.
He had done this. Not with spells, not with duels—but with cruelty, calculation, and the knowledge that this would hurt more than any curse.
She knelt beside Lolly once more, wiping her own tears away roughly. "I swear to you," she whispered, her voice low and trembling with fury, "he'll pay for this. I don't care how long it takes. I will make him pay."
The silence returned, broken only by the quiet hum of the magic charm still pulsing in her pocket.
And then—an hour later—a loud crack split the air.
The manor's wards shimmered, and from the entrance hall came the sound of footsteps quick, purposeful.
Eira turned as Emma Bloom appeared in the doorway, wand drawn, eyes sharp and scanning.
She saw the mess. The chaos. And then her gaze landed on Eira—kneeling beside the lifeless body of the house-elf.
Emma's face froze.
"My lady," she said carefully, stepping forward. "What happened?"
Eira didn't answer. Her shoulders were tense. Her hands bloodied from rope burns. Her eyes full of tears that had turned cold.